Memories of the Turner Sub Shop sister store

When I started life at SCAD in the Fall of 2005 I lived in the dorms like everyone else. As a requirement of living in the dorms, you had to have a meal plan. These meal plans came with "dining dollars."

What are dining dollars, you might ask. Well, here's SCAD's definition.

Dining Dollars are a declining balance account included in the meal plan as a convenient way for students to purchase snacks or grocery items or treat a friend to lunch at SCAD.

I'll address the second part of that quote first. Nobody wants to treat their friends to lunch at SCAD. Nobody wants to treat themselves to lunch at SCAD. The food in the cafeterias is absolute Sodexho garbage. You may be thinking, "hey, maybe the food quality has gone up since when you moved out of the dorms two years ago." It hasn't. Along with other Student Media leaders, I was "treated" to free breakfast at Cafe SCAD a couple of weeks ago in return for meeting with Dr. Phil Alletto, VP of Student Services at SCAD. The food was no different. After two years of complaint-filing from most students (I assume), there still wasn't any cold soy milk. The scrambled "eggs" gave me an instant stomach ache.

But this is about convenience stores, right? So, students are forced to convert their USD into "dining dollars" when they're forced to purchase their meal plan. I only have one visual example of what you can buy with those dining dollars.



That's right, $4.69 for a single box of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese. This same product goes for just over a dollar at the local Kroger. Not only that, this product is useless to residents of the dorms. There isn't a single stove within the entire Turner/Weston/Dyson/Annex dorm complex surrounding this convenience store. There is nowhere for customers of this store to cook this box of macaroni. This image sums up my entire review of the Turner convenience store. I have no more to say.

Chu's

My girlfriend and I were eating at Madras Chetinaad, the best Indian restaurant in Savannah. The general consensus in our relationship is that Indian food is the best in the world. As such, we overeat at this restaurant. Never fail, one of us always leaves with a stomach ache. If I had an endless supply of naan and masala sauce, I doubt I would ever stop dunking and eating it. It would be like a voluntary case of the first victim in Se7en. Yeah, gluttony guy.

A few nights ago I saw an opportunity through the window next to our booth at Madras -- Chu's Market on Eisenhower Drive. Erin and I made a pact to eat until one of us was sick (it was bound to happen anyway) so we'd have an excuse to go to Chu's. Gotta work hard for your blog, right? Long, delicious story short -- we waddled across the parking lot divider to Chu's.

Chu's was on lockdown. My girlfriend and I both went straight for the restrooms in the back. Both were locked. This is terrifying. As if walking across the parking lot wasn't hard enough, now we have to find the keys to the bathroom? We headed for the front counter, only then noticing the bulletproof shield. The entire counter was a massive, clear and impenetrable box. We asked for the keys from the cashier and heard her muffled response through the glass, "They're on the counter." All this security for nothing? Whatever, we hit the bathrooms.

These bathrooms weren't very clean. Wet floors, smelled bad, soggy toilet paper strewn about. Whatever, we were just glad it was over.

The store offered some interesting products. The cooler had your standard sodas and beers, but way down on the bottom shelf were some "juices." The first were individual Mondo bottles -- those small plastic Kool-Aid knockoffs with the twist-off top. I hadn't seen this crap since third grade. Next to the Mondo were those little plastic cubes of colored "drink," like they serve in the cafeteria on the show Oz. Only 39 cents to drink like you're in a state penitentiary.

The "coffee corner," right next to the "candy corner" (both signified by buzzing neon signs) was easily the most unique spot in the store. The back wall behind the three coffee makers presented a giant hand-painted mural of a Mexican town, complete with una escuela, una biblioteca y un supermercado. This thing was like a fourth grade class project. Muy bien. The tie-in? There was a tiny metal cart filled with some Mexican bakery goods -- basically a bunch of greasy pound cakes wrapped in plastic. Exotic.

I awkwardly bought a pack of Fruit Stripe from the lady behind the two-inch thick glass wall. Heads up, Fruit Stripe gum still loses its flavor after an honest ten seconds. Next time I'm at Madras I'll stick with their bathroom.

Washington, D.C.

I recently visited the capitol of our fine country for a four-day student media conference. I spent a lot of time walking around in the rain looking for something to do with my friend and fellow conference-goer Chase. We ended up wandering around in four different convenience stores in the downtown D.C. area -- a Mexican corner store, a 7-Eleven, a Rite Aid, and a CVS.

Mexican corner store
On the day of our arrival, we anticipated a jacuzzi at the hotel we were staying at on SCAD's dollar, the Hilton Washington. As such, our first trip on foot through downtown involved buying some cigars at a convenience store -- because that's what you do in a hot tub, smoke cigars. The first one we found was exclusively Mexican. Mexican flags hung from the ceiling. The place was separated into three rooms.

The first room was filled with standard junk food, gum and toiletries. The second room had two glass display cases and a large magazine wall. The first glass case contained over a hundred unique low-grade Mexican films in VHS format. Most of them were about love affairs. The second glass case was filled with plenty of overpriced glass pipes -- strictly for tobacco use.

The third room cost a dollar to enter. It wasn't really a room, but a section of the back of the store surrounded by bed sheets hanging from clotheslines. We could see between the sheets. You guessed it, full of porn. I wonder how many people are willing to pay a dollar cover to look at what are most likely low-budget Mexican porn VHS tapes in the back of a rotten convenience store.

7-Eleven
We didn't buy cigars at the Mexican place. We didn't buy anything there. We left swiftly and silently. A 7-Eleven was across the street and I hadn't seen one of those in years, so we walked in. Upon entering I slipped in a puddle of Slurpee machine runoff and almost cracked my skull on the linoleum floor next to the Tasty Kake rack. This store was tiny -- only two short aisles and a small counter cramped with two cashiers. They didn't stock cigars, not even White Owls. We settled on Black & Milds to represent the 912. A cop skipped us in line. This place was beat.

Rite Aid
We ended up at this place at least three separate times during the trip due to its location (one block from the hotel). It was like any other pharmacy style convenience store, except a lot larger. Their selection of inexpensive (read: crappy) cigars was astounding, but we weren't willing to spend any more money on novelty tobacco. They had some great magazines. There was a large back basement room, mostly containing women's beauty products, that we didn't bother entering. It was uneventful, much like --

CVS
After seeing an advanced screening of The Darjeeling Limited one night, Chase and I really needed some cigarettes. Despite most of what this entire post insinuates, neither of us are really "smokers." Just, when you see a film with a cigarette in almost every scene, and you've got 20 city blocks to walk in the cold back to the hotel, some things must be done. We walked for about five blocks from the E Street Cinema without finding a single convenience store -- strange because whenever we didn't need to find one, there was always one in sight.

The CVS was a lucky find. Despite it being even larger than the aforementioned Rite Aid, it took us a while to realize that it was really a CVS store and not an ad for one on the side of a corner apartment building. It took even longer to find the entrance. This was the first time I had been carded for cigarettes in a few years. My pack of Camel Lights ran about three dollars more than they do in Savannah. It was worth it. This place was uneventful as well.


The D.C. trip was a good one. As far as convenience stores go, the city offered some interesting stuff, but what was I expecting out of chains like Rite Aid and CVS?

Oh, and for those of you wondering, the Hilton didn't have a jacuzzi. We smoked the Black & Milds anyway.

Podcast Interview with Jessica Clary

This is the first podcast for The Convenient Truth. Within, I interview Jessica Clary, Assistant Student Media Director for SCAD, and family member of the Jordan Oil Company. The Jordan Oil Company owns all Hot Spot convenience stores. Jessica shares the interesting experiences she's had over the years relating to the convenience store industry. The podcast runs around 24 minutes.

Chevron

Memories of my first year at SCAD come to mind whenever I visit this gas station. The Chevron on the corner of Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard and Oglethorpe Avenue is the place for dorm-trapped, car-less freshman to forage for "food" when the unappetizing Cafe SCAD is closed as usual.

When I was a photography major living at Weston House, I spent a lot of late nights at Bergen Hall. Only two establishments offered something to eat on the path between Weston and Bergen. Chevron and Carlito's Mexican Restaurant. Since I was spending all of my money on archival fiber paper and medium format film, it couldn't always be "taco night."

The Chevron is a standard gas station store. It's cramped and doesn't offer anything very interesting or unusual aside from maybe Bawls Energy Drink, a highly caffeinated Sprite-style beverage that comes in a blue glass bottle. This was a hit with the freshman crowd pulling all-nighters. Everything else is average. Day-old "hunk-a-pizza" slices under heat lamps, every salty snack you shouldn't be eating, and often a long line due to lottery ticket sales. Not much going on, until you step outside.

A convenient set of deck tables and chairs are arranged outside the storefront where some classic late-night Savannah characters like to hang out. That one guy you thought was going to rob you yesterday, a bag lady curbing her methadone craving with some circus peanuts, three old men mumbling at every woman in a ten foot radius.

However, there are some nice people outside the Chevron as well. One night my girlfriend and I saw a golden retriever running free a few blocks from the Chevron on Oglethorpe Ave. We both tried to calm it down and keep it from running in traffic, and it ended up hiding in the bushes in the median outside Oglethorpe House. We stopped a SCAD Security SUV and asked if he would help, only to hear "I don't touch no wild dog." We decided there wasn't much we could do until we got the number for the Humane Society or Save-a-Life, so we headed back to the dorm. We saw a dog barking inside a parked truck while we crossed the Chevron parking lot. The trucker came out and noticed we were looking at his dog. We told him about the dog running loose, and he called his girlfriend who happened to be a volunteer with the Humane Society. So yes, I can say something good did come out of this particular store.

The Chevron is still apparently the place to go for emergency food and/or cigarettes during 11 a.m. class breaks, so I suppose it lives up to its name as a convenience store. If not for its convenient location near Crites and Bergen Halls, I say don't bother coming to this place. Unless you've lost your dog.

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The Origin of the Convenience Store

While doing a little research for some reviews, I stumbled upon the National Association of Convenience Stores (NACS) website. Yeah, something like that really exists. They've got a lengthy section describing the rich history of the convenience store in America, which goes something like this.

On the corner of 12th and Edgefield Streets in Dallas, Texas, circa May 1927, The Southland Ice Company's "Uncle Johnny" Jefferson Green, owner of the Southland Ice Dock, realized people needed to buy basic necessities like bread, eggs and milk after the grocery stores were closed. He stocked the items at his ice shop and stayed open late, making the world a more convenient place.

The convenience store grew rapidly after the second World War alongside the idea of the "American dream." More families had more cars and lived in more suburbs, further away from shopping centers and large grocery stores. So, more convenience stores came into existence. As for the Southland Ice Company? They changed their name to 7-Eleven, Inc.

Since the 1950s, the convenience store has grown into the gas stations and corner stores we see today. Nearly everywhere across the country you can find a place to feed your nicotine habit, spoil your diet, gamble away your hard-earned dollar, and buy the beer you need to forget about all of that. Ah, the convenience store. Thanks, Uncle Johnny.

Parker's Market

Simply put, Parker's Market on Drayton is a small version of The Fresh Market with a gas pump outside.

This is one of the few places I've ever known where you can buy green pistachio muffins (the greatest baked good I could never successfully create in my own kitchen). This Parker's contains a full-fledged bakery with far more elegant items than a Little Debbie Honey Bun or other such "convenient" dessert. There's a deli with meals you'd find on the menu of most bistros or coffee shops. There's an entire room devoted to beer, which is always a good thing. There are plenty of import beers alongside the usual PBR and malt liquor. They have an impressive variety of gourmet groceries, like lingonberries and organic macaroni and cheese. There's a large selection of emergency Mother's Day gift-type items and things you think are "neat" until you look at the price sticker. Their magazine rack is stocked with plenty of uncommon newsstand finds. They usually have an assortment of flowers perfect for picking up after a fight with your significant other. The cash register even dispenses the correct amount of change directly to a cup, to avoid cashier incompetency.

The downside is pretty obvious as soon as you enter: prices. A six-pack of Newcastle costs about $2.50 over retail. A plain egg salad sandwich, $4.49. That little jar of lingonberry jam is a five-dollar item. Want to not disappoint Mom? It'll cost you. And you'd better start looking for a new significant other if you're on a budget, those flower prices are jacked. What about that sought-after pistachio muffin? It ranks in at a reasonable two dollars. I'm serious.

The Parker Companies define the location on Drayton St. as an "urban gourmet," rather than their usual "convenience store." I guess what they mean by "urban" is you can pump gas at the usual ridiculous price, and by "gourmet;" you can buy nice crap inside at the same rip-off level.

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El Cheapo

In the case of the gas station across the street from my apartment in downtown Savannah, Chris Farley's SNL translation skills hold true. El Cheapo is Spanish for The Cheapo. I suppose the name is a vain attempt at putting an ethnic spin on the idea of a gas station to better sales, but somewhere along the lines of public relations the El Cheapo executives decided they should create their own form of the Spanish language to sound more catchy. Despite the title, the inside of the convenience store on the corner of Duffy and Abercorn Streets lacks any sort of Hispanic charm, or really any charm at all.

The store is a small room comprised of four aisles, a smaller back room, and the checkout counter. The various aisles offer usual gas station edibles like candy bars and potato chips. One of the aisles features a wide selection of potted meats, many of which would be hard to find even in most grocery stores. Jarred, semi-boneless pigs feet in vinegar stood out among the rest. I was surprised to note that unlike most items sitting around in El Cheapo, the pigs feet jars weren't coated in a year's worth of dust. Another aisle conveniently stocks baby toys next to condoms and automotive parts.

Each aisle leads to the rear wall of beer and liquor coolers, standard in most convenience stores. On Sundays, however, this particular shop chooses to lock the cooler doors using broom handles and two-by-fours, "no drinkin on Sunday" etched into the wood.

Somewhat hidden by cardboard stand-ups of half-naked women is the back room, the neighborhood gambling hot spot. Three arcade style electronic slot machines sit in the dark plunking their 8-bit versions of Rat Pack lounge favorites. A few neighborhood grandmas sit here on most weekday afternoons, only with the sorest expressions on their faces. The closest thing to a casino in the Victorian district.

I can admit that El Cheapo saved me when my girlfriend ran out of eggs in the middle of a recipe (and I suppose being able to trust the dairy products there is a plus). The clerks are friendly and remember your face quickly, making ID card fumbling infrequent. The logo, a crudely-rendered donkey kicking at the words "high prices," is a bit of false advertising, but what can you ask for in gas prices these days.

El Cheapo on Abercorn isn't very cheap or ethnic, but it lives up to its name as a "food mart," as long as you're into canned meat or frightening pink cookies called "Uncle Al's Stage Planks."

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